Soul Catching
by LiteratiAngel
Summary: He curls his head into himself, brushing across the Master’s temple...and he realises that this is it; the last thoughts and memories of Koschei...Soul catching. TenSimm!Master, ThetaKoschei drabbles. Reviews equal much love!
1. Data Ghost

**Soul Catching**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who...probably just as well, really...**

**Dedications: My love today goes to Vicky and Jamie...because you both rawk =]  
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**A/N: Apologies for the angst-overload in this chapter, it felt necessary if I was going to attempt to do _Last of the Time Lords_ any justice. According to a website I found whilst researching bits of this fic, '_soul catching'_ is a process that Gallifreyans can use to absorb another Gallifreyan's dying memories, so of course that led onto the whole ThetaKoschei part of this fic, because who _wouldn't_ be thinking about the Doctor if he was your gorgeous ex-boyfriend and you were dying in his arms? Well, certainly not the Master, that's for sure! The rest of this fic will be ThetaKoschei drabbles and mostly unrelated; they're just snatches of the Master's memories...So, enjoy, I guess!**

**A/N Take Two: Please remember that all reviews are greatly appreciated so once you've finished reading, have a go at pressing that purdy li'l button at the bottom of the page...Pretty please with an even prettier Time Lord on top?**

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Data Ghost

The gunshot reverberates throughout the Valiant, the sound bouncing off the metallic consoles and cascading down the walls.

The Master doubles over, his eyes wide and dark with shock. Dark crimson blood seeps thickly through his pristine white shirt, long tapered fingers of scarlet trickling across the silk of his stomach, matching the evening gown he had chosen for his murderess.

Lucy Saxon watches as her husband collapses to his knees, gradually freeing her from her jailer. She can barely feel the captain as he removes the gun from her trembling hands. She can hardly hear anything; all sounds are muffled. Sight is a blur of shaking dots of colours; touch is a blissfully numb tingle. The only sense that seems to have survived the explosion of that singular death-marked bullet is smell. The tainted tang of rust; the scent of bleeding death dissipating throughout the room, making her head reel as she watches the scene of screaming silence in front of her; an impassive stranger.

The Doctor catches him as he falls; Koschei, his wonderful, deranged Koschei who could have been so beautiful, who always _was_ so beautiful that it almost hurt. As he lays the Master down on the cold wooden floor of the Valiant, head resting on his thigh, he wonders when they were last this close to each other. The Master's breathing is slow and laboured, painful in each inhalation, struggle as each puff of air escapes him. Regeneration should be easy, which is why the Doctor finds himself screaming, _begging_ him to do it, to stop toying with him and get on with it. Just because he's seen it happen before, doesn't make it hurt any less.

The Master's refusal is cold. He doesn't care what the Doctor wants or needs, or what _Theta _would have wanted; he just wants to win, just this once. He wants to push it until the Doctor realises what he has refused, the chance he has taken from them. But that's the bravado talking. If he was completely honest with himself, he'd see the fear. He likes this body, this face, and regeneration has always been an unnecessarily messy process for him. He's terrified of what he might look like, of what he might become if a new man saunters away with _his_ name and _his_ life. A bullet just seems so much easier.

The last breath is simple and his eyes close; his last memory, the Doctor deep brown eyes, so different from the sapphire blue of their childhood, brimming with silver tears. It is good.

The world disappears.

And the emptiness returns. The Doctor clutches at the Master's body, holding it to him as if he could force the regeneration out of his lifeless body. There is a sting in his eyes and he realises that he is crying but he doesn't care anymore. Let Martha and Jack see him weak; what does it matter? There's a hole in his stomach, gnawing away at his insides, like hunger, only raw and tearing and powerfully lonely. He curls his head into himself, brushing across the Master's temple and suddenly, the Valiant swirls away from him, blurring madly and he realises that this is it; the last thoughts and memories of Koschei, almost like a data ghost, although never as primitive. Soul catching.

The Doctor gulps down the air, letting him choke him as his head clears and he can see rolling fields of crimson grass, a sky of burnt orange and, more intriguing still, tantalising flashes of creamy peach curves and crevices. And a voice; the most beautiful voice he has ever heard. It wraps around the words like silk; delicate, yet protective…

_"Draw what you see…"_


	2. Lines and Curves

Lines and Curves

_The Doctor gulps down the air, letting him choke him as his head clears and he can see rolling fields of crimson grass, a sky of burnt orange and, more intriguing still, tantalising flashes of creamy peach curves and crevices. And a voice; the most beautiful voice he has ever heard. It wraps around the words like silk; delicate, yet protective…_

_"Draw what you see…"_

~*~

"_But I see you…"_

"_So?"_

"_So I can't draw you…I won't be able to do you justice…"_

Koschei prods the flesh on his hip, the slight puppy fat of childhood that still lingers moulding to his touch. His finger is pointing to a silvery white scar that arches along his hipbone.

"_You see?"_ he asks. _"From when I fell out of our tree."_ He pauses to let Theta process his words whilst he contemplates his next avowal. _"I won't always look like this, Thet. You've heard them talking in the Value of Life lectures…regeneration is still a death when all's said and done. You might not want me if I change."_

Theta opens his mouth to protest but no sound came out; he can't envisage any Koschei other than the one sitting naked in front of him. Anything else would be a false coin; a pretender.

"_I want to know how you see me."_

"_But why can't I just tell you?"_ Theta asks, puzzled.

_"Because you have an irritating habit of embellishment. I want to see what you see when you look at me now, without all the flowery sentences and clichés. I want honesty, not poetry."_

Theta wants to tell Koschei that every single word he has ever uttered about perfection and bliss and all those other idioms about days without light and putting diamonds to shame are all true, but he can't think of how to explain it.

Instead, he picks up the stick of charcoal and places it on the rough, dimpled page of his leather-bound notebook. The lines are smooth and clean, denoting the sharp angles of Koschei's cheekbones and the tiny indentation in his chin. He pays careful attention to the shadowy hollow at the centre of his collarbone; shading with perfect precision until it is just the right hue of lightly smudged grey and the unrefined sketch continues. The curves of Koschei's thighs are Theta's favourite; while they first appear simple when the charcoal touches the paper again and he draws a smooth semi-circular line, he realises that they are so much more complicated. They curve into his pelvis, curling slightly but while the line appears effortless, it crinkles where it touches a fold of Koschei's skin as it creases into another area of his body; a frown behind his knee, a crinkle along his hip.

Theta leaves Koschei's eyes until last. They are a soft, constant blue, like swimming water; deceptively deep and dark. He has to be careful not to drown in those irises as he sketches, shades and smudges until he feels that he might have done some modicum of justice to the perfection he sees in them.

When he has finished he holds it out to Koschei brusquely, as if he is somehow annoyed that he has been forced to study him all afternoon; the truth is, he is frustrated that he has been forced to spend the time drawing him when he could have been exploring all that beautiful peach cream flesh. Koschei is silent for a while, studying the sketch and then he looks up at Theta, his mouth twisted down into a slight scowl.

"_You've made me…_beautiful_…"_ He says the word as if it is something filthy; the ultimate insult.

"_That's how I see you, Kos…"_ Theta's voice is hushed, timid with the air of quiet confidence of someone who knew that they are telling the truth.

"…Really…?"

"_Of course! You _did_ tell me to draw what I saw…"_ There is a slight accusation in the repetition of Koschei's order.

"It's…"

"_Yeah."_

"_Thank you."_

"_Yeah."_

"_What's wrong?"_ Koschei asks.

"_I spent all that time just…_looking_…it's infuriating, Kos!"_ Theta bursts out suddenly.

Koschei is silent for a moment and then he pouts slightly before complaining, _"It's cold, Thet."_

More silence and then Theta's voice breaks through, barely a whisper.

"_I could do something about that…if you want…"_

~*~

The Doctor remembers that day with a painful precision; the smooth cream curves of Koschei's young body, displayed to him because he wanted the truth. The trust between them was unbreakable and eternal.

With a jolt, the scene shifts and everything goes dark; a blackness of nothingness that he wonders for a second if this is the Void, or maybe just the Darkness of death, but lightening crackles in his mind and suddenly he knows. He has been here before...


	3. These Childish Dreams

These Childish Dreams

_With a jolt, the scene shifts and everything goes dark; a blackness of nothingness that he wonders for a second if this is the Void, or maybe just the Darkness of death, but lightening crackles in his mind and suddenly he knows. He has been here before…_

~*~

Dark overpowers light, or at least that's how it seems to Koschei. He knows that it can't be possible but somehow, he can't shake off the suffocating feeling that darkness is the most powerful force in that world.

Storms are infrequent on Gallifrey but when they come, the tranquil planet is bathed in a blanket of pure ebony darkness and the turbulent wind whips around the Citadel, seeping through tiny fissures in the great glass dome and whistling eerily as it caresses the towers of the Prydonian Academy.

When nights like these come, Koschei locks his door and stacks books against his window shutters, desperate to keep the monsters of the deep away from him. He curls up in his bed, covers pulled over his head, cocooning him in a warm bubble… but the darkness still exists.

Theta relishes the darkness; its silence is cool and calm, quietening the world so that he can find company in his chaotic thoughts. It soothes him in a way that light never does because he finds that he can't breathe in the heat and blinding sunlight of the day. _But he knows. _He just has that intricate instinct, a kind of sixth sense, that tells him when Koschei is afraid.

At the point in Time when the storm reaches the peak of its raging crescendo, Koschei just knows that there will be a quiet knock at his door; nothing ferocious, just a gentle tapping so as not to alarm him. Theta always knows what he needs to be reassured. When Koschei ventures through the cold, uninviting shadows that have fallen across the room and turns the key in the lock, Theta is revealed on the other side of the door.

No words are exchanged, just an outstretched hand and a pillow. Theta knows that Koschei sees fear as a weakness so they never talk about it; they just lie in each other's arms and wait for the storm to pass and the light to seep through the cracks in the wooden shutters. And that's how it is; silence and closeness, feeding off each other's warmth until sleep overcomes them and they drift away into dreams. Until the silence breaks…

"_I'm always going to be here, you know…"_ The thought drifts lazily into Koschei's consciousness, swirling around in the sleepy fog of his mind. He realises that Theta's fingers are twirling into his hair, just brushing his temples lightly, feeding the thought into his mind.

"_I wish you'd warn me before you do that, Thet…"_ Koschei mutters groggily, whilst pushing a thought back through Theta's fingers. _"I know you'll always be with me. You don't have to be around for that. I carry you."_

"_You don't have to. You won't ever lose me."_ Theta was always more articulate through the medium of psychic contact; when it came to actual conversation, he stuttered and slipped over words as if they were black ice, designed only to trip him up. It tended to be Koschei's presence that had the most potent effect over him when it came to speech. Koschei didn't mind; any excuse to have Theta's cool hands dancing over his skin seemed perfect to him.

Theta's thoughts become blurry as he drifts into sleep, conversation forgotten as he slips into his dream world. Koschei watches tentatively, feeling like a trespasser on Theta's most private secrets but he just can't help himself; it's too tempting to close his mind. Colours distort, twisting into a haze of brightness and white puffy flakes of the first snowfall. The grass is green and cropped, unfamiliar to Koschei's eyes as he stands in the deserted field, peppered with patches of pristine snow. Yet somehow, he knows he has been here, not before but in the future. Finally he knows where Theta wants to explore. A name stands on the tip of his tongue but before he can utter it, the scene shifts, spinning rapidly into the more familiar crimson and gold. He can see them lying in the grass, hands clasped, limbs intertwined. It's a memory; it can't be more than a few years old.

Theta sighs in his sleep and turns over, his fingers slipping from Koschei's hair. Koschei feels empty with the loss of Theta's bright colourful dreams and drapes his arm over the other boy, desperate to regain some of their previous intimacy. Theta shuffles backwards across the bed, gently nudging Koschei into the wall as he nestles into the embrace. Koschei smiles and closes his eyes; the darkness and storm forgotten as he dreams about green fields and the child-like expression on Theta's face as he curls into the blanket and sticks his bottom lip out ever so slightly.

The morning comes quickly; they forget that most of the night was spent wide-eyed with drowsiness, revelling in each other's company. Theta picks up his pillow and wordlessly sneaks back to his own room and Koschei notices how cold it feels when the door closes and he hears Theta's footsteps retreating down the corridor.

The mood over breakfast is subdued, Koschei almost too ashamed of his late-night dream wanderings to look Theta in the eye. Suddenly Theta's head snaps up.

"_You were in my dreams last night,"_ he hisses, eyes flashing with anger as his cheeks redden with embarrassment.

"_Was I?"_ Koschei asks, determined to play the innocent.

"_You were watching them."_

"_What makes you think that?"_ The defensive strategy; admit nothing, let him feel like he's in the wrong.

"_I dreamt about you."_ The statement is bland, quiet, accusatory.

"_So?"_ The memory of their field drifts incriminatingly into Koschei's mind.

"_I never dream about you."_

"_Thanks?"_ Koschei's tone has undercurrents of hurt cutting through it and he doesn't bother to hide them.

"_Were you inside my head?" _Theta asks patiently.

"_Well it was your own fault!"_ Koschei bursts out. _"You left you hand in my hair and it just…happened! Besides, I don't see what the problem is, anyway…you use our psychic connection to communicate with me all the time!"_

"_But that's when I say it's ok…When you just take over, I lose myself to you. I'm not exactly complaining, it's just that…I need to close doors sometimes…"_

"_I'm sorry, Thet…"_ mumbles Koschei quietly.

"_I'm not hiding anything from you, you know…I just need my dreams to be private because dreaming about you ruins the perfection of reality…"_ The words are whispered but Koschei's hearts sing as if Theta is shouting from the highest tower of the Academy.

Even so, he shrugs them off lightly. _"Don't be silly, Thet. Reality is never perfect."_

~*~

He tears himself away, wondering if he can relive anymore of these shared memories, but curiosity and a sense of instilled love and duty overtake him and he leans his head forward again, rocking the Master's body slightly.

The view is colourful, soft and light; his room at the Academy. Koschei is sprawled across the bed, his arms and legs splayed out, spreading his robes across the covers. He is covered in papers, screwed up notes dotted with swirling drawings. Gallifreyan. The Doctor delves closer into the memory...


End file.
